


my ghost, where'd you go?

by ivanattempts



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rated for smut in some chapters, emperor!Hux
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5984938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanattempts/pseuds/ivanattempts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My ghost, where'd you go?<br/>I can't find you in the body sleeping next to me.<br/>My ghost, where'd you go?<br/>What happened to the soul that you used to be?</p>
<p>I'm searching for something that I can't reach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_ Something is missing. _

It would be entirely too easy to dismiss that thought, to push it from his mind and pretend that things were as they always had been. To go through the motions of the day, and ignore the disturbance that has become an everyday occurrence. 

Or, at least, Ren tells himself it would be easy.

The command deck of the Emperor’s flagship is quiet, except for the subtle sounds of people at work, the low hum of machinery, the quiet questions and answers being passed back and forth amongst various staff over the entirety of the ship, voices slightly tinny on the other side of the headsets. There is the near-constant press of thoughts around him, and should he choose to, he could slip into the surface of any of the minds around him. His presence alone is more than enough to keep the workers focused, to keep them on task. He does not both to fully listen in; should something out of the ordinary arise, he would notice, but otherwise, the familiar sound of it is as forgettable as the myriad noises the ship makes from time to time. 

Leather gloves crease where his fingers curl over the iron railing he stands poised at. He does not have the former General’s composure, his ramrod straight posture and impeccable poise and control. The pale features hidden by the mask are too emotional, and they reveal too much of his thoughts; he looks fragile, like a doll of porcelain, and his eyes are too large, too dark, his mouth too quick to curl in distaste, in anger, brows too quick to pull inwards in frustration. The mask is more imposing, and these days, he is never seen without it. He  _ needs _ to be imposing. He  _ needs _ the fear inspired by his looming figure. 

And there  _ is _ fear; it’s sharp-edged, a periphery emotion that people show in the way they avert their eyes from him in the hallway, in the too-fast words that come spilling from their mouths when they are forced to endure his presence for the sake of giving a report. The way they flinch when he moves his hand, as if anticipating the invisible vice grip around their throats that they are aware he is capable of inflicting upon them. 

Most days, he doesn’t bother. Sometimes, his temper gets the better of them. There’s no point in denying that he is the sole cause of approximately seventy percent of the incident reports that need to be passed along. It’s not prudent of a commanding office to show such a lack of restraint in their actions; it’s a lecture he’s received any number of times, first from Supreme Leader Snoke, and later General Hux. 

Thinking the name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Better just to leave it off.  _ The General _ is so much more impersonal...though not so impersonal as  _ the Emperor. _

Ren doesn’t know if he will ever get used to that title being associated with the man he has spent so much time riling up on the command deck of the Finalizer, has spent so much time watching and needling, has spent so much time hovering just on the surface of his thoughts ---

He doesn’t want to think about that right now. His knuckles have gone white under the black leather of his gloves, and they ache from the amount of force he is putting on the railing. It’s a wonder it isn’t crushed, that his long fingers do not leave indentions in the metal to serve as a warning towards his mood.

Not so flashy as sparking consoles, recently run through by a lightsaber, but very few people aboard this ship would make the mistake of ignoring the subtle signs. They’ve learned better, from people who didn’t have time to learn.

One slow, deep breath later, and he is releasing the railing and stepping back, folding his arms resolutely behind his back in a parody of the way the General used to do.  _ Control. _ It’s something he still struggles with, and something he will need to learn to master, if he hopes to get any stronger -- and he  _ needs _ to get stronger. His responsibilities have grown tenfold in recent times, and he will  _ not _ fall down on his job.

Turning promptly on his heel, he marches from the command deck, and out, down the hall. He needs some time to himself. He needs to meditate. He needs to quiet his mind and stop  _ thinking _ so damn much. Most particularly, he needs to stop thinking about  _ the Emperor _ , because chances are,  _ the Emperor _ is not thinking about him.

  
Ren refrains from spreading out his thoughts to find out if this assumption is true. He finds he honestly doesn’t want to know the answer.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ren.”

The Emperor doesn’t look up as the door slides open; he doesn’t need to, and Ren doesn’t expect him to. There’s only one person who would walk so brazenly into his office, without so much as a courtesy comm request. That he doesn’t look up doesn’t bother Ren so much as the greeting, if it could be called as much; it’s distracted, barely an acknowledgement. His fingers tighten into fists at his sides, but after a moment, he forces his hands to relax.

“Emperor.”

The mask changes the sound of his voice; levels it out enough to hide inflections that might give away his feelings on matters, though it’s far from monotone. It lilts with his damnable accent, so very aristocratic. 

From here, all he can see is red hair, not a strand of it out of place, and a pale nose, lightly dusted with freckles that would make him look boyish, if not for the severe expression he always seemed to wear. It’s something Ren has known him to hide with a carefully applied amount of complexion in the early hours of the morning, when sleep had still blurred his own eyes. That they’re visible now means that Hux has not left this room in some time; likely nearly a full day. Even simulated day and night to maintain the natural circadian rhythm of most of those on the ship should be followed, and Ren has reason to suspect the man seated in front of him, rapidly reading through the information that passed before him on an automatically scrolling datapad, has not adhered to these standards.

In short, Hux hasn’t slept in at least twenty-four hours, and Ren is  _ pissed _ .

It is --- difficult, he finds, to remind himself that there is a time for anger, and there is a time for calm. Difficult to remind himself that despite the fact that he has been lectured on the uses of his barely restrained fury for so long he can hardly remember a time  _ before _ , it is not always the most feasible course of action to simply let his anger speak for him.

If he were to have his way, he’d march over there, and rip that datapad out of his hands, and demand he get some  _ rest _ . How effective could he be at his job if he didn’t even take care of himself? And indeed, there had been a time when he might have done exactly that, but now…

_ Something is missing. _

Another slow breath, and the Emperor is raising his eyes; they’re a particular brand of  _ cold _ , more frigid than Hoth after night has fallen. Those eyes could freeze a man in place and stab icy needles of  _ fear _ into his heart. Cold and clear as a winter’s day, the first, biting taste of a snowstorm to come.

He hates how expectant that look is, because Ren cannot simply  _ be _ here anymore. There is always a reason. There must be a reason, because if there is not, then he is  _ wasting the Emperor’s time _ , and he should  _ take his tantrums elsewhere. _

His teeth  _ grind. _

The silence stretches on.

_ You haven’t been sleeping, _ he considers saying.

“My report from the latest excursion into rebel territory will be available for your consideration later this evening. Captain Phasma’s report will corroborate, with accounts from the men she had present.”

There’s a nod, and those cold eyes lower to the datapad once more. From his position near the doorway, Ren can just barely make out the fact that the text begins moving again. It’s a dismissal as clear as any he’s likely to get, but he lingers, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and the movement draws a sigh from the Emperor.

“ --- is there something else?”

Ren considers.

_ You haven’t been sleeping. You haven’t been eating. You’re not talking to me. You won’t even look at me. _

_ Something is missing. _

“No.”

“Dismissed.”

Ren doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t hesitate. He leaves the room as swiftly as he entered it.

That evening, on Hux’s desk, there are three reports; Kylo Ren’s, Captain Phasma’s, and an incident report involving severe damage to a console on deck three, with an addendum from Medical about minor burns suffered by a technician that was quite unluckily in the area at the time

The first two find their way into his files; the third is deleted almost as soon as it arrives, though a work order is quickly placed.

Some things require no thought at all. Kylo Ren has become one of those things.

  
It is not something the Emperor dwells on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW content in this chapter.

There is no grace in the way their bodies meet.

Nails dig crescent shapes into the freckled expanse of Hux’s shoulders, and teeth find a home in the curve of Ren’s throat. He tastes sweat, tastes blood, and the tang of an expensive bourbon that had burned on the way down. There’s an ache,  _ somewhere _ , that has nothing to do with the too-sudden press of hips against his own, the slide that has Hux pressing  _ into _ him, the stretch of it, the slight discomfort.

This doesn’t happen so often as it used to. Ren doesn’t let him himself focus on that. Instead, he runs his fingers through those red strands of hair, tousles them in a way that has the man atop him nearly  _ growling _ in frustration. It’s childish, but it’s a small thing Ren refuses to deny himself as he drapes one pale leg over the hips grinding down into his. A shudder races down along the length of his spine, and he’s sucking in a breath, holding it until he’s nearly dizzy from the lack of air, and if he were to pass out, he doesn’t think it would matter. This act could be performed in his sleep. 

All it requires is a warm, willing body, and Ren has always been that. 

It is too desperate; there is none of the usual composure that he has come to expect from this man. There hasn’t been in a long time. It’s always like this, now; he’s less of a  _ partner _ and more of a  _ punching bag _ , someone willing to take the frustrations being poured out in the form of scraping nails and rough thrusts and pulled hair and harsh bites, and give out pleasure in return. 

Whenever he is requested to the Emperor’s quarters, he knows what will happen, but he comes all the same. There’s something loathsome in this; something that turns his stomach, something that makes him shake in a way that has nothing to do with the tightly coiling muscles in his abdomen that come with the careless, rough strokes of a stranger’s hand.

And ahhh --- there it is, the truth of it.

Even in moments like this, Hux has become a  _ stranger _ . 

How easily Ren can pick out the individual ribs beneath his skin, the vertebrae of his spine, the delicate bones that make up his hands; how  _ thin _ he has become, and how  _ pale _ .

_ Sickly. _

And even now, even as those fingers catch in Ren’s dark curls, pull his head to one side so their mouths can meet with a click of teeth, there is distraction; one lapsed moment in which Ren allows himself to reach out, to brush Hux’s thoughts, and all he finds is  _ pleasurepain  _ and  _ meeting in the morning, look over report regarding --- _

Ren’s thoughts recoil so quickly that he feels a throb in his head that has nothing to do with the pinprick pain of tautly held strands of hair straining at his scalp.

He spills over Hux’s hand, and the other man stills atop him, breathing heavily for a moment -- and then he’s withdrawing, moving off the bed, and towards the shower, because there is not a minute to waste, he has to shower, has to dress, has a half-dozen requests he needs to look at before he can even contemplate resting, and he’s already  _ wasted too much time. _

Ren’s stomach turns.

  
When the shower door opens and the Emperor returns to his room, he finds the sheets rumpled, but the bed empty. He makes a mental note that nearly immediately gets lost amongst the hundred others, and moves to look at his night’s work.


End file.
